Cold Cuts
by Kazuman21
Summary: Sam is given a new mission by the Devil to return escaped soul Harris Diller, a rapist/murderer, back to hell. All the while, Sock is discovering a more intimate way to look at his best friend. WARNINGS: Slash; don't like don't read, Noncon, violence.


Darkness softly covered the room, the low musings of a clock echoed through the emptiness, encouraging rest as numbers rose and fell with the sun. A thick comforter enveloped a sleeping figure from the chill of the air. Through the light gauze of sleep, Sam heard hard, hollow footsteps approach his bed slowly. His eyes flashed open and he quickly switched on the lamp to the stand beside his bed. Sitting up, he scanned the room around him meticulously.

"Nothing," he sighed then leaned against the wall behind him, the ledge of his window pressing into the back of his neck uncomfortably. The room was empty; no demons crawling on the ceiling or shadows shifting out of the corner of his eyes. Ever since he had started working for the devil, he constantly expected that someone (or something) stood behind him. Occasionally his new heightened level of paranoia served him well, but other times it only complicated things, mostly his sleeping patterns.

The covers rustled as Sam scooted to the edge of the bed. He could hear the muffled sounds of the T.V. through the wall. Glancing at the glowing red numbers on his digital clock beside the lamp, he read that it was 3am. "Damn," Sam muttered as he stood up, a low groan of sleepiness escaping his lips. "I don't have to be awake for four hours!" he growled as he sauntered towards his door. Sam gripped the cold brass door knob and turned it. There was a soft click as he opened the door and walked into the darkness of the living room. "Sock, I have to get up soon so turn the T.V. …" Sam's voice ebbed away into nothing as he glanced around; his surroundings were pitch black and as silent as the grave except for the eerie sounds of water droplets dripping onto the ground into the puddles of their fallen comrades. Cold and clammy, the air that engulfed his body carried the putrid smell of rotting flesh.

"D-Devil? Are you there?" Sam stuttered. He couldn't be in his living room anymore or he'd see Sock. Maybe this was only a dream and Sam was still in bed sleeping soundly.

Suddenly light illuminated the inside of a barn, the walls dulled and chipped by time, a sundry collection of sharp metal objects lined the walls like gory trophies covered in old black blood, and the hay on the floor splattered with the same black pattern of death.

Sam gulped nervously. "Okay, Devil, you can come out now," he stated, his posture awkward and his brows furled in growing worry.

The Devil strolled up beside Sam, his suit clean and perfect as always, no dust and fine creases that ran down the legs and arms of his outfit. His expression creepily happy. "Nice pajamas," he said as his eyes laughed at the image of Sam standing in the middle of the barn donning only a pair of silky black boxers and his hair a mess.

"Just tell me what's going on. I have to wake up at seven to go to work. Not that you care." Sam held himself to fend off the chill that creped along his skin like frozen spiders.

"Always trying to make me look like the bad guy, huh, Sammy?" the Devil retorted with a smile, pristinely white teeth peeking from behind his mouth's door.

"You're the Devil," the half clothed brunet responded as he rubbed the palms of his hands down his arm to generate just enough heat to keep him from freezing.

The Devil scowled at his reaper and took a step forward and examined the objects that lined one of the barn walls like morbid pieces of art. "Fine," he sighed in disappointment, "his name was Harris Diller; a real sick bastard in even my opinion." Tan fingers reached out and skimmed down the edge of one of the butcher knives, flakes of blood falling from the metal. With a pivot, the Devil faced Sam, aged hands reaching into his pocket to pull out a folded piece of paper. With eyes that spoke louder than his mouth, the Devil _encouraged_ Sam to take the paper. Snatching it from the Devil's hand, Sam unfolded it to reveal the mug shot of a man: white, shaggy blonde hair, big circular glasses, dark circles under his eyes that spoke of countless sleepless night, a crooked nose that seemed like an outward reflection of his personality, and a grin that was wide, thin, and chapped like the crumbling edges of a ravine. A chill shivered its way up the brunet's spine.

"He owned a small deli that was shut down for some very serious health violations." The Devil continued taking a few casual steps forward.

"What kind of health violations?" he question with a quick step backwards. He never enjoyed having the Devil near him; it was oppressing. "Did he poison people?" The entire environment was beginning to creep him out and the scent of death that wafted throughout the room made him queasy.

"Hold on Sam, I'm getting to that," the Devil responded with a smile.

Crumbling the paper in his hands with rage, Sam growled, "You know I don't have time for this!"

"Well," the Devil stated with faked bemusement, "since you're too grown up for my stories. Harris Diller was a mass rapist. He raped _at least_ fifty men and women. When he was done having his way with them, he would cut them up and use their bodies as ham or bacon in his deli," he finished too matter of factly for Sam's comfort.

His stomach turned inside of his body. "What?!" he spat with shock. "How could he do that? Wouldn't people notice that they were eating other humans?" he questioned with evident disgust. It seemed as though the job the Devil assigned to Sam were becoming sicker and sicker.

The Devil chuckled at his reaper's query, "Of course not! Humans act like pigs, so why wouldn't they taste any different?"

Sam clenched his jaws shut tightly. "Just tell me where to find the escaped soul!" he yelled, losing his temper.

Once again the Devil laughed, his nose pointed into the air. "Okay Sam, I see how it is today. If you don't feel like listening to me you can figure this one out on your own completely." The Devil paused and smirked, his tan skin creasing from age, and pointed a finger at Sam. "I mean, we have taken the training wheels off anyways, am I right?" he said and with a hollow 'good luck' disappeared.

"Shit!" Sam cursed sourly under his breath. He had no clue where he was, and, once again, the Devil had abandoned him.


End file.
